Touches
by irislim
Summary: Sometimes, just the smallest, most fleeting contact is enough to set one's heart aflutter. A canon-compliant, Regency one-shot inspired by the period drama trope of meaningful, momentary, spark-inducing touches.


The first time was innocent enough. It happened at the Meryton Assembly, mere moments after he had so decidedly insulted her. Elizabeth felt some, though not much, shame as she intentionally paraded across his line of sight - preening as pridefully as she could with whatever beauty she _did _possess. The edge of her gown brushed against the edge of his tailcoat as she turned.

It gratified her slightly that he'd stiffened at the unexpected contact.

He didn't react as if he'd seen her, but she contented herself with having ruffled his feathers, even if in the most minuscule of ways.

* * *

The second time it happened, it caught _her _by surprise instead.

"Tea, madame?" He had offered uncharacteristically, while Miss Bingley prattled on about the latest fashion plates and Mr. Bingley asked yet again how well Jane was recovering.

Elizabeth met his eyes briefly this time, and she muttered a quiet "Thank you, Mr. Darcy" before she let the cup and saucer transfer from his hands to hers.

The touch was fleeting, a mere brushing of fingertips.

She was fairly certain it was only the surprise of it all that caused her breath to quicken ever so slightly before his retreat.

* * *

They'd shared no other touches - until Kent - until his presence as her cousin's patron's nephew threw them into each other's company yet again.

"Allow me, Miss Elizabeth," he had offered, solemn and straight, a stark difference from the colonel's easy, open manners.

Yet every time the master of Pemberley leaned over to turn the page for her as she stumbled through the piece, he teased the dwindling distance between them as swaying tree branches would under the wind.

She swallowed wordlessly that one time his warm arm _did _press against her shivering shoulder - a fleeting, maddening moment.

She barely knew how she'd finished the rest of the music.

* * *

Her heart ached at the conclusion of it all.

She knew she'd hurt his pride, though she wondered if she had been harsh at all, in contrast to his fumbling and insult of a proposal.

"Forgive me," he said, "for having taken up so much of your time."

She sniffed, anxious for the weary day to be over.

"And accept my best wishes for your health and happiness," he concluded.

She nodded curtly, incapable of saying any more than she already had.

He lingered, for one quick moment, before hastily leaving the room.

It was just enough of a moment to reach for her hand and to place a brief, almost pleading kiss upon her knuckles.

She had no remaining strength to protest, not even long after he fled the parsonage.

* * *

He didn't touch her again for a long time to come, despite having handed her that life-altering letter.

She hadn't _seen _him again, or even truly heard how he was faring, until their ill-fated re-encounter this morning.

That _he_ had found _her_ in _his_ house, a vain and presumptuous guest touring his mansion, brought upon every embarrassment she could ever possibly imagine. Why, oh why, had she agreed with her aunt's horrific plan?

Yet here he stood, yet again, eager to engage her uncle and aunt in conversation despite their lowly connections. Here he walked, beside her, a willing and attentive gentleman in every way.

When she almost tripped upon the last step of the staircase, his hand had flown quickly to set her to rights.

It was her heart that had no right to flutter so enthusiastically at the chivalrous act.

Truth be told, she hardly even slept the entire night.

* * *

The next time, the next evening, they didn't truly touch - but the warmth of his gaze as she grew to know and love his shy, smiling sister made Elizabeth's heart crumble so thoroughly that she felt as if they had embraced.

Such scandalous thoughts, of course, she could never utter to anyone but her own treacherous mind.

* * *

"Miss Elizabeth," he pleaded, when she wouldn't cease her endless heaving - and, now, her sobbing as well.

For how was she to tell him of the irreversible ruin that had come upon her family? She - who had barely qualified to be his friend - who had dared to dream, even for one fleeting, selfish moment that perhaps she _could _be something more than a friend to him - had now fallen from grace so thoroughly so as to barely deserve his acquaintance.

"Miss Elizabeth, you are ill. Shall I fetch you that glass of wine?"

She shook her head, needing him and his proffered arm to stay here at the inn with her as long as he was willing.

She did not lean against his chest, for even in her weakness, she remained a lady.

She did, however, cling desperately to his forearm, all ten of her fingers grasping for the last remnants of what would now surely be their final interview. The damning letter lay untouched on her lap.

When he left, her heart shattered - knowing full well that it was to be the last touch they ever shared.

* * *

As it was, Providence had other plans.

"Shall we?" He prompted her, months later, his generously extended arm between them, while her sisters wandered ahead.

What was she to do - when her heart brimmed of so much gratitude, admiration, and esteem for this man?

She took his arm with more eagerness than was entirely proper, and she relished the brush between her glove and his sleeve whenever the gentle turns on the path compelled them to step just that much closer to the other. Soon, she would have to speak. Soon, she would take this chance that she had never dreamed to ever have again to thank him for his incomparable kindness to Lydia - his undeserved charitableness to her family.

What he said in response when she did mention her gratitude was unexpected - but welcome to the utmost.

* * *

"Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth." Every word from his lips caressed her senses as if they were his fingers themselves. She was happy, elated - _jubilant_ beyond compare. She, who had stormed across him on the assembly dance floor, anxious to show she did not care for his esteem, now basked in the wonder of what having his _love _truly meant.

His every praise, wholly undeserved, came lavished upon her as if she had never done wrong - had never spoken harshly or accused him of intentions he had never possessed. Embarrassment and joy mingled to form a most strange concoction in her veins.

It was not until they'd checked their watches that the need to return cast a weight upon the light-headed airiness of their delight.

"Darcy, if you must know - " She tried to begin yet another iteration of the story of her altered hopes, as if reliving the darkness of the past would solidify the happiness of the present.

"Know of what?"

She lost herself in his gaze - his tenderness, his warmth. Perhaps, just this once, the _present_ was worth far more than the past ever would be.

"Elizabeth - may I kiss you?"

She only had the chance to offer the slightest of nods before he acted upon his proposition.

It did not take long for her to discover that she much preferred this sort of touch over any others they had previously shared.

* * *

"Fitzwilliam!" She squealed, when he lifted her off the floor the very moment the servants left them alone in the spacious master suite of Darcy House.

It had been difficult, she supposed, to maintain decorum the entire way to London. But she liked to think they had managed not to scandalize anyone overly much.

"You, my love, are far too tempting to be displayed in public," he spoke as if his declaration was fact - as if the universe was filled with men as blind and silly as he.

She gladly allowed his indulgence all the same - for whoever would say no to such adoring eyes and heated passion?

The kisses he proceeded to bestow upon her then were a far cry from the muted, tender brushes upon Longbourn's grounds. With wandering hands and wandering tongues, he guided them decidedly towards his room, a man on a dangerous mission.

It was a touch of an entirely different kind when their bodies came together as one - when she became his, and he became hers - and she came to understand what all those other touches had always spurred her body towards.

And here, panting on the expanse that was his bed, resting her head on the breadth of his chest - Elizabeth was more than happy to stop counting how many more touches still remained, for her mind and heart were far too occupied living the joy of the touches they _did _share, in the wonder that was tonight.

For how could mental arithmetic ever compare with the real thing?

* * *

_A/N: This one-shot came to me when I was reading up on period romance tropes. One little scene grew to a long series of scenes. I hope it was fun to read for you! Thanks for following my stories :)_


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